Sacred
by MoonShadow269
Summary: He loved her more than he loved himself. He loved her, but she was sacred. He was nation, she was a saint. She was holy, he was wretched. But deep in his heart he knew—even if he loved her and she loved him back, God was not forgiving to those who broke her and though he healed her, God did not take him with her.


She was a free-flying bird, equipped with talons in the form of blades and wings in the form of purity. Her eyes were crystal blue and like that of a falcon's—sharp, alert, and absolutely breathtaking. Her feathers were locks of golden silk, dancing around her ears and tickling the smooth skin of her neck.

_My angel from above._

The crowds cheered for her and loved her, but those who hated her hated her with a passion that could not be matched with love. But only one voice rang true, and that was the voice of a nation—the voice of the people.

_Madonna, Madonna…My sweet Madonna_.

Her hair was cut short, shorter than what he'd prefer. Her charming blue eyes glittered with a mixture of amusement and love as she brushed away his gentle fingers. "It's harder to fight when it's long," she told him as he ignored her hands and continued to play with the tips of her hair. Deep down inside, both of them knew he would much rather have her hidden from the battlefield and safe within his home. He loved her, and she loved him too.

_As pure as the Virgin Mary…_

No matter how much he loved her, he knew his limits. She was a godly woman—she had God's love. Who was he to take that from her? He pillaged, he stole, and he raped while she fought for the very country that she loved. He was a pirate, scum of the earth, yet one of the most powerful figures of their country. She was a saint, a peasant woman, yet one of the most honored and beloved generals of the French army. No matter how much he desired her, she would remain untouched until marriage. No matter how much she lusted for him, she knew that he was too great for one woman to love.

_A blessed warrior…_

She was guided with the grace of God as she fought on the battlefield. At first she was looked down upon, but the circumstances were dire. She was given an army. She defeated her enemies—battle after battle. Her victories liberated French villages. Her successes strengthened his pride. Her advancements infuriated the British. As a repayment, the French government gave her family noble status. Unconditionally, French soldiers saw her as a beacon of light—a gift from their God.

_A beloved fool…_

She trusted her countrymen too much. They sold her to the English and condemned her without caring for the facts. "Witch!" They cried, pointing accusatory fingers in her direction. "Burn her…Burn her!" Even the French clergy sided with the English and dictated the trial. The tears that escaped her merely fueled their desires to keep breaking her, breaking her until she became the fallen vessel—the very vessel that most referred to as "woman".

_A mortal being…_

At her trial she proved to be the very woman that he was enamored with. Her words were strong and steady—earning even more love from the people who had no voice. But they elicited rage and anger from those who hated her—those who had unquestionable power. "Do you know if you are in the grace of God?"

"If I am not, may God place me there; if I am, may God so keep me. I should be the saddest in all the world if I knew that I were not in the grace of God. But if I were in a state of sin, do you think the Voice would come to me?" Oh, his love for her in that moment increased to a point in which he became almost hysterical, pounding on the doors of the clergymen, begging to have her freed. Yet he was met with cold and aloof stares as she was chained and withdrawn to locations where he himself was forbidden to tread. From there on, punishments were given and false confessions were beaten from her lips.

_A broken woman…_

He knows the work of the church. He knows the cruelty of the guards. He had been a guard, a knight, a pirate, and a scholar. He studied with the archbishops. He loved her so much that he refused to touch her. He honored her purity and her love for God. But the guards—they beat her. They took away the very thing he prized so dearly. Before long, she was a shell of the woman that he had once loved, weakened by torture, rape, and suffering. The day they let him see her alone was the day before her burning. How he cried when he saw her body, broken, bruised—violated. He cradled her head in his hands but even then he faltered to kiss her. "I am unwanted by man," she had croaked, eyes begging for his love, "but perhaps you and God still love me." It was only then did he lower his head and give her the kiss they both had dreamed of.

_But most of all…_

She was the only one he truly loved. When they tied her down at the stake, her voice did not falter as she addressed the crowd for the last time. Her lip did not quiver and her chin did not lower. When she searched the crowd and saw him in the back, she smiled sadly at him. _For a love than cannot be. The only one I will ever love_, she had told him the night before, when he lay beside her and kissed her face. The love that they shared was pure—unadulterated and held no lust. He held her and wrapped her in his cloak, refusing to leave until the guards put their spears at his neck. He had never touched her with his body, but he had touched her with his love. When they lit her aflame, the only cries they heard were those pleading to the God above to forgive her, to forgive the church, and to forgive the nation she loved. Those very words touched his isolated heart. _God forgive the nation I love beyond all else—_

His eyes close now as he remembers her dying gasp. _France._

Twenty six years had passed before she was found to have no guilt. All but the church mourned a second time.

The government of England held no shame. The country of England—the single voice that belonged to an individual and to his people—cried with the French nation. Every 30th of May, the country of England and country of France isolate themselves from the world around them and mourn for a woman that paid for a death she did not deserve. No, France has not laid a single finger on England those days and nor has England used bodily pleasures to comfort France. England stays for the day and leaves before nightfall. As France knew his limits with his beloved, he knows his limits with England. No blood should be shed as a result of their mourning. No nation should be provoked to declare war if anything were to happen between France and England on this day of peace. Regardless, if France was to seek comfort on those nights, he would be faced with a shame so powerful that he becomes suicidal. So the nations keep their distance although their mourning is shared. As regulated every year, the two of them solemnly sip their spirits, click their glasses in honor of Joan of Arc—France's beloved Jeanne d'Arc.


End file.
